


If You Think That I'm Awake

by blackstoneirregular (candiedrobot)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Demons, Gross, M/M, Mage Fenris, Past Rape/Non-con, Slow Burn, Venatori, cuddling??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5399828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedrobot/pseuds/blackstoneirregular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ghost of Danarius lingers long after he's gone, in the most unexpected way.  </p><p>Fenris always thought that he was chosen to receive his marks for his strength, for his merit and for his ability to endure; but a bloody encounter on the Wounded Coast threatens everything he thought he knew about himself.  Danarius was a man of many secrets, his fateful experiment a dark shadow that follows Fenris still, threatening to consume him.</p><p>When he discovers that he possesses the one thing he hates above all else, <i>magic</i>, Fenris must look to Anders to control his new-found powers, whether he likes it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Think That I'm Awake

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is understandably going to get pretty angsty for a while, but I promise there will be a happy ending! Fenders ahead. Rating and warnings will change as story progresses. For now, only a heads up for some violence and blood. Also a rather emotionally compromised Fenris. Sorry about that.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @[blackstoneirregular](http://www.blackstoneirregular.tumblr.com)

The thing about magic, Anders could say with some level of certainty, was that it was it was a gift. Though perhaps not a gift one could choose to deny or accept, it was a blessing nonetheless. It wasn't a mage's fault that the Chantry taught the world to fear him and hate him. Ignorance was the source of fear, and fear was the source of hate. Most non magical folk just didn't _understand_ what it was like, to look at the world around you and see so much potential, so much beauty. Magic gave man the chance to be a thunderstorm, a blizzard or a hurricane; it let him knit flesh together and chase infection from a dying man's blood. Magic was more than power, it was _life_. It was _freedom_.

The thing about magic, however, at least as far as all his years of tutoring and healing and hiding and grey wardening had taught him, was that it could only be wielded by mages.

This made Anders' otherwise normal day stomping around on the storm coast with Hawke, Fenris and Merrill, well... _complicated_.

 

The day started off like any typical day in Kirkwall. He woke up early, made himself some tea and a light meal of bland, tasteless porridge. He splashed some water on his tired, unshaven face, tried to find a smile in the mirror that didn't make him cringe, and then he lit the lantern over the clinic doors. Anders settled into his role as healer for a few hours until he looked up to greet his next patient and saw Marian Hawke beaming at him with that look in her eyes. Merrill waved happily beside her and Fenris stood alone, several yards back with his arms crossed and wearing a distasteful expression. Anders saw behind them that the lantern outside had been extinguished.

He sighed. “I'll go get my coat.”

 

The slavers on the Wounded Coast hardly ever presented any real problems for their little group, especially when the four of them made the day-trip together. Marian was a whirling dervish with her twin blades, too fast for anyone but the most experienced fighters, which these men typically were not. Merrill's primal magic made her seem like more than she was; bigger, stronger, all stone fists and fire. Fenris, if left to his own devices, would have cut a whole squadron of the bastards down on his own without breaking a sweat, that giant bloody sword swinging around like it was no more than a child's wooden toy in strong, sure hands. With Anders' protective barriers and ranged attacks, their foes were usually no match for them.

Today, it seemed, was different.

After walking all afternoon up and down the blasted coastline, they were surprised to find the place marked on their map, the slavers camp, abandoned. A fire still burned low, down to nearly nothing but embers and a few weak flames, and tents were erected but empty.

“Could somebody else have gotten here before we did?” Merrill asked curiously. Her eyes were wide and searching as she bent down to sift through a pinch of dirt. “They haven't been gone long, whatever the case.” Anders was no tracker but he trusted her assessment. If there weren't demons involved, he figured Merrill probably couldn't be too far off base with her judgement.

Hawke huffed, putting her hands on her hips and looking around. “Who else hunts slavers out here besides us? Aveline's men certainly don't, which is why Kirkwall's best and brightest are on the scene.”

“Well I don't know about brightest,” Anders said casually, leaning on his staff and already beginning to entertain dreams of a warm fire in the hearth back in the clinic, and maybe a pot of hot, delicious stew with little bits of carrot and rabbit in it. “Even if we weren't out here in the greyest place in Thedas, I think our friend Fenris over there has a bit of a personal rain-cloud over his head. His very own broody brain storm.”

“Be quiet,” Fenris snapped, head tilted to the side in a way that Anders couldn't help but think sort of adorable. His ear twitched and Anders had to look away for fear of cooing at Fenris like a cat, an act that would surely end with Ander's heart in the elf's gauntleted hand, and not in the figurative, ridiculous way he used to fantasise about once upon a time before he allowed himself to become jaded by his companion's unyielding hatred for him and the rest of magekind.

“Oh look,” he chirped snidely, “is that a little lightning I see o'er that snowy white horizon?”

Marian snorted and Fenris' lip curled as he stalked over to Anders and reached for his sword. Anders blinked. The elf usually didn't resort to violence so early in their banter. “I said be quiet mage,” he snarled. He unstrapped his sword slowly and narrowed his eyes, flitting his gaze warily to the side, towards the hillside. “Something isn't right, I think this is...”

“A trap!” Hawke called as the air chilled behind him and Fenris shoved him aside just in time to miss the ice blast that would have otherwise caught him square in the back. As it was, it still caught his right arm and he grit his teeth against the pain as he hit the ground and the still air around him erupted in magic and shouting and the clang of metal as Fenris and Hawke dived into the oncoming rush of what certainly didn't look like slavers.

Anders sent a quick healing wave of magic through his arm and shook off the ice, brandishing his staff and turning to face their attackers. They looked suspiciously like Tevinter mages, all long robes and staves and evil auras like storybook villains. Anders cast quick barriers around his team mates before focusing on taking down as many as he could with his own frost and whatever else he could whip up fast. There were a lot of them. There usually weren't this many mages in one group, and none of them looked like any slavers Anders had ever seen before.

But they honed in on Fenris like vultures, and the warrior, who normally had no trouble slaying as many enemies as the rest of them combined, was beginning to slow.

Anders tried to make his way over to him, but two mages cut him off and demanded his attention. Sparing the briefest glance before being dragged into closer combat than he preferred, Anders noticed that Hawke and Merrill were getting the same treatment. The bulk of the attacking party descended on Fenris and Anders grit his teeth and focused on the two mages in front of him. Fenris would have to fend for himself, at least until Anders could make his way over there.

He used the blade on his staff to force them back, swiping a violent arc between them. It didn't make contact, but it forced them back long enough for him to steal another glance at Fenris. He had killed one of his attackers, but the other four were coordinated and with an enraged roar the elf went down. Anders cursed and summoned a round of chain lightning. It was clumsy, but it spread over more ground and had the chance of striking Fenris' enemies as well as his. Hawke and Merrill were still engaged, having just as little luck as he. His lightning struck one of his own attackers, but before he could do much celebrating, he heard a dull thud and saw Fenris' sword tossed to the side, well out of his reach as the potentially-Tevinter mages closed in around him.

“Fenris!” he shouted, but his attention was torn back by the mage summoning a fire rune in front of him, and just as he managed to interrupt it, he smelled something familiar and stomach turning. The sharp copper scent that, accompanied by the sudden way all of the hair on his arms stood on end, meant only one thing.

Blood Magic.

“Anders, can you get to Fenris?” Marian's voice, shrill and panicked, side by side with the screech of metal on metal that meant she was still in the thick of battle.

“I'm trying!” He sliced back at the mage in front of him and finally felt his blade connect with skin. He sent a shock of ice at him to send him down for good and got his feet moving underneath him, running for Fenris, who remained worryingly unseen in the throng of robed bastards. The acid sharp smell of the Fade was heavy, and he knew right away that one of them must have used Fenris' blood to open a tear. It hung heavy and grotesque in the air, all greens and rippling black, like oil on water. A sharp claw began reaching into their world and Anders cursed.

The figure conducting the blood magic, a robed mage who stood out among the circle surrounding Fenris, was speaking, but it wasn't for his ears- it was too low and indistinct from where he stood. He heard Fenris snarl, and he struggled to close the distance between them just as the mage reached forward, a length of chain glimmering silver and blue in his hands, obviously enchanted. The circle parted just long enough for Anders to catch a glimpse of Fenris, and he realised that there were two more figures within the circle, holding him down. Fenris was a mess of blood, snarling and writhing like a cornered wild animal and his eyes fixed fiercely on the hand reaching towards him. Anders' heart was in his throat. _If he could just get there in time, if his feet would just close that distance between them._ He didn't care if Fenris hated him; if he had learned one thing in life it was that love always came back to bite him on the ass. He could keep playing this game of mage versus slave for the rest of his life if he had to, and he could be content with the steady stream of banter and bickering, but he would be _damned_ if he let anything happen to Fenris.

He let his left hand fill with static and rage as he lifted his staff to the sky in another, lightning at the tip of his fingers, in the back of his throat, but in that moment of calm before the storm, with the pulling crackling rip of demon talons clawing into this world, something unexplainable happened.

Fenris clenched his gauntleted hand into a fist and his voice came tearing out of his throat with a roar as green light, bright and charged with power, coalesced around his fist. It packed itself tightly together, bathing Fenris in an eerie ripple of green and the shining blue of his brands. Fenris surged forward against his captors, their faces hidden behind masks and hoods, but bodies rigid in obvious surprise. The fist of green light, crackling with the energy of the Fade, shot out from him and collided with the Blood Mage, sending him straight back into a tree, where he crumpled, lifeless and sizzling, the enchanted chain harmlessly coiled in the dirt. The shock wave knocked the rest of his attackers back, and Fenris and Anders both gawked, frozen by the impossibility of what had just happened.

The rest of the attacking mages, however, were not as distracted, and they started scrambling to their feet, hands on their staves, so Anders shook off his astonishment and fell back into action. He called forth the lightning he had been moments from summoning, and as it rained down on their enemies, he quickly closed the rest of the distance between them and snatched up Fenris' sword where it lay, dragging the heavy thing across the ground to shove it into Fenris' hand.

“Take it!” He urged when Fenris still seemed too stunned to move; but the weight of steel in his grip appeared to bring him back to his senses somewhat, and he gripped it tightly, the blood-stained tips of his gauntlets scraping over the back of Anders' hand.

He swung into the battle just as Hawke and Merrill managed to make their way back over to them, red smeared across their armour and skin to match the brilliant stripe across Hawke's nose.

“What was that?!” she shouted as she gutted a mage in a single graceful motion.

“It felt like magic!” Merrill called back from behind her.

Anders spotted Fenris falter to his side and it cost him, blood blossoming against his leg as he stumbled to the ground. Anders cursed. “Not now!” He was at Fenris' side shooting down his attacker and covering him as the elf pulled himself to his feet and stood shakily, gritting his teeth and holding his sword between him and those foes remaining.

It didn't take long to dispatch them now, not with all four of them together and working as seamlessly as they could with Fenris barely able to stand.

When the last enemy was dead on the ground, they all breathed heavily for a long moment, surveying the damage. The tear in the veil had sealed itself shut with the death of the Blood Mage, and whatever those otherworldly claws had belonged to were long gone with a lingering acrid tang in the air and a bad taste in Anders' mouth.

He turned his attention on Fenris. Hawke and Merrill had only minor injuries, and they were being dutifully quiet, except for their laboured breath and Hawke's low whistle as she made a fairly obvious point of looking at anything but Fenris. She hadn't even begun looting the bodies yet, and Merrill was fidgeting. The question was heavy on both of their minds.

_What the hell had Fenris done?_

But Anders knew that right now their friend's injuries were more important, so he shoved other thoughts to the back of his mind and let his healing instinct take over.

His hand glowed faintly blue, a soft aura of healing magic at the ready but the elf took one look at him and scrambled away, his leg giving out and sending him back down to the ground.

“Don't touch me!” He cried, panic in his voice. His leg was a mess, blood staining the grass beneath him where he sat, but he didn't seem to be paying much attention to the pain. Instead, his eyes were wide, his sword gripped in tightly clenched hands and held in defence, as if the mages that attacked them weren't all grass fertiliser in a wide arc around them.

This was a dance he was familiar with, but the steps were all wrong. Fenris often denied his healing, but never like this; with this fear in his eyes and such a tremor in his hands. The thought of magic terrified him right now rather than enraged him, and Anders didn't want to give weight to the voice in his head that thought it knew why. Justice was stirring in his subconscious and it made him uneasy.

Putting down his staff carefully, Anders held his hands up and let the healing magic visibly dissipate. He blinked steadily at Fenris as if he was a wild animal, or a cat with its claws out, considering whether or not to use them.

“It's okay,” he said calmly. “No magic. I promise. I'm still a healer though, Fenris, and your leg needs tending if you don't want me to have to carry you all the way back to Kirkwall, and really- nobody wants that. Least of all you.” He knelt down in front of him, looking down the edge of the most stupidly large sword he'd ever seen. “Let me look at it, Fenris.”

Fenris stared at him for several long heartbeats, each one a heavy, loud _thump_ in Anders' chest, though it felt like his heart was in his throat. He saw Hawke reach for him nervously out of the corner of his eye but Merrill caught her hand and he was grateful. It appeared as though, at any moment, Fenris would bring the sword down and that would be the end of Anders; but Hawke's interference would only spook the elf more. Anders needed him to trust him, for at least as long as it took to make sure he didn't bleed out. A fine tremor made Fenris' arms shake and he dropped his sword, letting it fall to the side in the grass in either a sign of trust, or exhaustion.

Either way Anders took it as permission to reach forward gently and touch the tear in his leggings where a jagged gash cut through his skin and stained his leathers with blood.

He wanted to wince, or whistle or make a snide comment, but something important made him feel less than usual like antagonising the elf so he let professionalism take over and pushed the leather aside to get to work. “Merrill,” he said calmly, I need you to get in my bag and get my healing supplies. They should all be bundled up together.”

“Yes of course,” she replied, and he heard her scamper off to go rummaging through his pack. He chanced a glance up at Fenris' eyes to find them downcast, studying his hands with a mounting terror that had him breathing unevenly, panic overriding most else.

“Fenris...”

The elf looked up at him and his heart nearly broke for how small Fenris looked, how afraid. “I'm like him,” he whispered; too vulnerable, too helpless. Anders' breath caught at his next words. “I'm... a mage.”

A thousand snide remarks died on his tongue before he could even consider opening his mouth. Instead, he swallowed his pride and applied pressure to Fenris' leg.


	2. The Shadow of a Man Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for extreme emotional distress, Danarius in general, allusions to past non-con, etc. It's going to take Fenris a while to find a happy place. I guess this is also where I mention this is going to be a real slow burn. Enjoy!

_Magic._ The word itself burned into the back of Fenris' mind, where he desperately tried to push it; away from his tongue, and away from the tips of his fingers, where he could still feel it, tingling and electric. Bile rose in the back of his throat and he had to stop, once, on the way back down the side of Sundermount, to lose his lunch in the sparse bushes at the edge of the road. 

He pushed away from Anders, who tried to slip an arm under his when he stumbled back onto the path. His leg was already bleeding through  its bandages; he was aware of this, the throbbing pain giving away to a distant numbness that made walking difficult. The mage had helped him walk, at first, but his sword was a bulky weight at his back that made Anders' arm around him less stabilising and more likely to send him tumbling than the bleeding wound on his  thigh .

Hawke had offered to hold his sword- a tentative, quiet request that didn't suit the brash, devilishly charming woman he knew,  but he had refused with a short response and not so much as a glance in her direction . They were all still nervous, he knew; afraid, of him. They should be.

_What he had done..._

His markings flared briefly at the memory, the lyrium in his body feeding some deep reserve that was unfamiliar and nauseating. His stomach turned again and his head throbbed. He swayed even as he held his hand out to Anders in warning to keep away. The mage was being too kind to him since he had... done what he'd done, and it unsettled him. He wanted, not for the first time that day, to be alone; in his stolen mansion, with his cellar full of stolen wine, well on his way to getting blackout drunk and pretending that none of this had ever happened.

“Fenris...”

The voice was meek and soft, lilting in that melodious Dalish accent that was soothing on most days. Today it just made him snarl.

“You can't walk, Fenris,” Merrill continued bravely, stepping too close and glancing up at him apprehensively. “You can use my staff.” She held it out to him, all wood and metal and magic, and he felt a pull from it, dangerous and alluring like a siren's call to a sailor lost at sea. He wanted to touch it, wondered what it would feel like, to hold it in his hands and feel his own magic course from him, through it and out into the world, he wanted...

Rage washed over him like a tidal wave, and he wasn't aware of Anders pulling Merrill back, or the panic in Hawke's eyes, or the hurt in Merrill's, but when the buzzing in his ears died down, he heard himself screaming, and saw his sword lodged firmly in the trunk of a giant oak tree yards away. He was on the ground, and his leg was back to a heavy throbbing, drops of blood soaking through to the dirt below him and big black splotches dancing in his eyes. He blinked heavily and took his head in his hands.

He was vaguely aware of Merrill speaking. Her voice sounded wet, and shaky, like she was trying not to cry. “...only meant as a walking stick, I swear, I'm so sorry...”

“I know love, but that's not the best idea right now,” Anders voice came in response, low and comforting. He said something else, but the words were too quiet and Fenris' world was spinning, his ears blanketing the sound with a heavy dullness that made him feel as though he were underwater.

The hand on his back didn't even startle him, when he felt it. It was too far away. He blinked stars and dark galaxies out of his eyes and looked up at Anders, who was wearing his healing face and speaking in that soothing voice that made him itch. “...is safe with Marian. I'm going to carry you on my back the rest of the way. ...know you don't want to, but we have to get you back to Kirkwall soon so I can take a proper look at that leg.”

Fenris wasn't sure if he said something in reply or not, but soon there was another pair of hands- smaller and gauntleted, and he was being lifted onto the mage's back. Deceptively strong arms held his thighs tight to the man's sides, applying added pressure to his wound, and Fenris' head lolled forward onto a soft feathered shoulder. The last thing he noticed before the dark void of sleep, was the distinct realisation that Anders' staff was nowhere in sight.

 

 

Fenris' sleep was not as dark or empty as it should have been.

He knew that he was dreaming, faintly, but he wasn't one to dream often, and the fade was sharp and vitriolic on his tongue. The air around him was heavy with indistinct whispers and even in his sleep, Fenris' stomach turned.

His eyes opened slowly. He expected green miasma, the Fade side of Sundermount, perhaps, but he saw none of these things. Instead, a gentle breeze caught in a soft curtain of white, delicately billowing over his skin in a gentle caress that felt far too real for a dream. He lifted himself on his elbows, fingers curling in decadent satin the colour of fresh cream, and felt his breath catch.

Through the gossamer of the curtains and the opulent four posters of the bed surrounding him, the sprawling rooms he saw were familiar. The high ceilings were gilded with gold and the walls painted with murals he had once fallen asleep studying, trying to distract himself from the emanating warmth of the body beside him. Reliefs of mages with high collars feasted among the Old Gods and gold leaf jewellery adorned the naked bodies of Elven slaves dancing in the light of the Maker.

Opulent white marble stretched under arched doorways that led from room to room, all part of the same master suite; and a fire crackled heartily in a gilded hearth that was never warm enough for the vastness of this place.

Fenris closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up.

A step echoed off of the marble, and then two, and as he counted how many he knew it would take to reach the bed, he whispered under his breath, “This is not real. This will pass. You are asleep and he is dead.”

The steps stopped and a familiar voice spoke in his ear, a dry whisper, limned with amusement and entirely too close for the steps he had counted. “ _Am I?”_

Nausea and anger warred within him as he forced himself to open his eyes. He clamped down on the fear and focused on the hatred he felt, at seeing that pallid face again, icy grey eyes appearing to twinkle, even through the wisp of the curtain. “ _Yes,”_ he hissed through clenched teeth. “I tore out your heart with my own hands.”

Danarius was smiling. The curtain distorted his face and made him seem more like an after-image, all blurred edges and soft lines. He looked younger somehow though, when he smiled, even with the crows feet catching around his eyes and the deep lines around his mouth. Fenris remembered once thinking he looked better when he smiled, kinder. He no longer suffered from that delusion.

“You know,” Danarius began, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the curtain taut between them, beneath his weight. Fenris chanced a glance behind him, marking escape routes and trying to decide if he could phase through the curtain on the other side of the bed to hasten his retreat. Danarius clucked his tongue in a disappointed manner and snapped his fingers, commanding attention. Fenris bowed in on himself automatically and Danarius continued. “There is more to a man than that which pumps his blood. A great man lives forever through the legacy and the power he leaves behind. And if this is true... I don't think I'm dead at all, do you, my pet?”

Fenris felt like the world was spinning. He felt sick. “I'm not your pet,” he growled. He couldn't bring himself to meet Danarius' eyes.

“No? I think you've forgotten a great deal. I think you've forgotten what you're worth. Actually,” Danarius paused, crooked his head and considered, “I don't think you ever really knew, did you? Not until now, anyways. Not _really._ ” He reached out and stroked his long fingers over the gauze that hung between them, and across the heavy air Fenris could almost feel his touch like ice across his skin. He flinched before he could steel himself. “You are worth _nations,_ my little Fenris,” he continued, voice soft and full of awe and pride. “Your value is beyond measure. And you thought I wouldn't come back for you on Seheron; in Kirkwall? You thought I wouldn't return for the most beautifully perfect weapon my hands- _or any hands- have ever created?”_

He clenched his fists and tried to compose himself. _This is but a dream,_ he reminded himself. _He is_ _not_ _real and he can't hurt you._

“ _Oh but I am, and I can.”_ Fenris finally looked up and the eyes that met his were no longer those of Danarius, but of something even colder, more dangerous. Dread uncurled like a snake in his belly and Fenris' eyes widened. A flash of green caught his attention outside the open doors in Danarius' suite, and beyond the gently billowing curtains, past the palatial columns and the wide, open balcony, the Fade roiled in blacks and greens and the breeze whispered in the voices of demons.

“ _Do you understand now, Fenris?”_ Danarius' voice was no longer his own. It, like his eyes, had changed into something else that was too familiar. He heard the voice of Feynriel's Pride Demon, the one who had successfully corrupted him and turned him against his friends, no more than a week ago.

_'With my aid, you could be free forever...'_

And that was all it had taken, a promise of power, the allure of the type of freedom a Magister had. ' _What... would you want from me?'_

Then, the last voice he expected to hear, echoing in his head, a memory of a conversation from long past, _'You know, to use blood magic you must look a demon in the eye and accept his offer.'_ And of course, it had to be Anders, the abomination, making him feel like a hypocrite and a failure. Fenris squeezed his eyes closed and fought an oncoming wave of panic with everything he had. He had already accepted a demon's offer once. He was weak and now he was dangerous.

“I want nothing from you,” he said, voice shaking, eyes still closed. The voices on the breeze laughed, shrieking and giggling madly from every direction; a cacophony of paroxysms that made him tremble.

The demon with Danarius' face silenced them with a gentle shushing sound. “ _I am offering nothing,”_ he said calmly. “ _Not this time.”_ Fenris swallowed and refused to open his eyes. “ _I am simply introducing myself. I expect you and I will see much more of each other in the nights to come.”_

“No.” Fenris felt his skin go cold. He was afraid. This was Danarius all over again, a new kind of slavery. So long as he laid his head down to sleep, he would not be free of this creature, and even if he did manage to defeat it, another would just take its place. He knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was all real. He was a mage; he always had been, and with the power he wielded... he was a danger. Not just to his friends, or to himself, but to the world. He wasn't strong enough to consort with demons every night and retain his freedom. It had been a pleasant taste, while he had it, but Danarius had been right. He wasn't meant to be free.

“You won't see me again,” he whispered into the blackness behind his eyelids.

He flinched back heavily at the feel of steel-clawed fingers caressing his cheek. He hadn't heard the rustle of bed-curtain, but he was left to wonder if he was even in Danarius' rooms still. However, when the demon spoke again, it was once more with his master's tongue,

“How little you know, my pet.”

 

 

Fenris woke with a start, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. It took him several long moments to convince himself that he wasn't still in the fade, on an opulent bed of silk, talking to a demon like it was the most natural thing in the world.

_'I expect you and I will see much more of each other in the nights to come...'_

Its voice rang in his head and Fenris growled and pushed off his covers, setting his feet on cool, polished wood. He had been sleeping on a cot, set up in impromptu fashion in what appeared to be Marian Hawke's library, and as he shook off the last vestiges of sleep, he heard muted voices arguing in the other room.

Fenris pushed himself off of the cot, wincing as his right leg didn't quite hold his weight. It was feeling better, but it was still far worse than what he was used to. He usually caved sooner or later and let Anders heal his wounds with magic, but he was surprised to look down and see the bandages still wrapped tightly around his thigh. They had been replaced at some point while he was unconscious, but it was immediately apparent that no magic had been used to heal him. He supposed he owed Anders that much. To wake up and know that magic had been used on him, after... Well, he didn't think he would be able to take it very well.

The door to Hawke's main sitting room was ajar, cracked open just a bit, and when Fenris hobbled over to it, he could see Anders And Marian standing together by the fireplace, speaking in low voices he could just barely make out.

“He can't go back to Danarius' place, Marian,” Anders was saying patiently, though Fenris could see him tapping his fingers agitatedly on the mantle.

“I _know_ that Anders,” she replied tersely. “He's staying here, obviously.” Anders started to say something, but Hawke cut him off, “And I think you should too.”

“ _Me?”_ Fenris couldn't see the surprise on the mage's face, but he could hear it in his voice. “Why me? Do you really think he wants anything to do with me right now? I'm sorry Marian, but I think you'll do better talking to him than I will. Historically, it doesn't go well when I try to talk to him about _anything_.”

“You did a good enough job up on the mountain.” Anders scoffed. “No, I mean it,” she continued. “If this is... what you think it is, then he needs someone like you. You can help him, teach him how to control it. Anders, he's _terrified._ ”

Fenris closed his eyes and leaned on the door-frame for support, turning his back to them. He knew what she was doing. He also knew that it would be a terrible idea, even if he didn't have his own plans already.

“ _You think I don't know that_?” Anders was hissing. Fenris steeled his resolve and pushed open the door. “I know that look, Marian, I've been there before!”

“That's exactly why you should be the one to-”

Fenris cleared his throat and limped into the room.

“Fenris,” Hawke finished, startled. Anders didn't turn to look at him, but his shoulders tensed.

“Hawke,” he replied. It felt familiar on his tongue. He would miss the way it felt to say her name, to have her back against slavers and blood mages and abominations. He supposed he would even miss bickering with Anders- or maybe he wouldn't miss a thing. If his plan was everything he thought it would be, he supposed he wouldn't miss much of anything.

“We were just discussing-” she began, but Fenris held up a hand to stop her.

“I know what you were discussing, and the answer is no, so you can save your breath.” He turned to Anders. “Don't worry mage, I have no intention of burdening you with the tutelege of an apostate. You should know me better than that.”

Anders laughed drily, but the tension remained in his shoulders. He glanced up at the ceiling, or perhaps to the Maker, Fenris couldn't be sure. “Well that's a relief,” he quipped, “I'm terrible at babysitting, and I do have such a busy schedule already, what with trying not to get _myself_ arrested...”

Marian scowled at him. “He doesn't mean that, Fenris,” she said. There was a note of pleading in her voice that he didn't like. It was like she had been sapped of all the confidence that made her who she was, and left her as something small and afraid. “You have to do something about this. I know you're... afraid, angry, whatever, but you can't just pretend like this didn't happen.”

“You're right,” he agreed. They both visibly startled and Anders finally turned to look at him, his eyes hard. His fingers stilled on the mantle. Fenris crossed his arms and stared at neither of them, but instead into the fire. He saw the eyes of Pride reflected in the flames, and heard a smooth, rich voice offering him the power to truly be free. “I am a danger to myself and everyone around me,” he said softly.

Marian made a frustrated sound. “That's why-”

“I'm turning myself in to the Templars,” he finished. “I'm going to ask them to make me Tranquil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danarius is the worst but I bet his house was real nice


	3. Give Me a Blanket for My Cold, Cold Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fighting. Lots of emotions. Hawke makes a tough decision.
> 
> I'm really sorry.

Anders sucked in a harsh breath as his world stilled. ' _I'm going to turn myself in to the Templars. I'm going to ask them to make me Tranquil.'_ “No,” he said, echoing Marian. 

She had been tired from arguing and worrying long before Fenris had woken, but now she just  looked exhausted.  Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and Anders knew she wanted nothing more than to crawl into Merrill's bed, across town in the Alienage where  the elf was currently holed up in her modest home; no doubt trying to shake the memory of rage and agony  that  had contorted Fenris' face into something frightening. But  Anders knew  Hawke  w ouldn't leave Fenris, not until they'd sorted this out, however long that took.

“Fenris, you can't,” she pleaded urgently.

Fenris  was quiet . “I  will do  as I wish , Hawke. Or am I not free to make my own choices  after all ?”

Anders tried to restrain himself, to hold in his anger, but Justice was a roaring storm in his head, his eyes crackling electric blue and fault lines opening on his skin. He tried to swallow him down, beneath the surface of his fear and frustration; he was the very last thing Fenris needed to see right now, but Justice wanted to be heard. Any satisfaction he had felt at seeing Fenris become the thing he ridiculed him for being _every day_ simmered into shame and dread. With his jaw clenched tightly, he balled his hand into a fist and smashed it into the stone of Hawke's mantle, the glow in his eyes diffusing with the pain and the clarity it brought. Hawke and Fenris both jumped at the impact, Hawke beginning to shake almost imperceptibly, and Fenris narrowing his eyes to slits. He was unreadable otherwise.

“Not if you go with them, you're not,” Anders explained calmly, ignoring the way his knuckles throbbed, or the blood trickling down his fingers. “You give yourself to the Templars and ask for... for _that,_ and you're never free to make a single decision _ever again._ You're never free to so much as be happy to see someone again. That's it, you're done. Bye bye everything that makes you Fenris.”

The elf looked away from him and Anders saw more cracks  appear in his mask. His jaw trembled, just the tiniest bit, his fist clenched against his  crossed  arm s . “Fenris isn't even my real name,” he said softly, and then, more forcibly, as his resolve hardened, “besides,  this is exactly why I must turn myself in!” He gestured vaguely to Anders. “ You preach day in and day out that most mages are masters of their own will, bastions of resistance against the beings that would use them \-  but you are an abomination yourself! That thing you call a spirit can hardly be restrained, and one day it will consume you, and your friends will be the ones to pay the price!”

“That's not true,” Anders said automatically, Justice a buzz of noise in his head even as he felt a stab of unease at the chord Fenris' words had struck with him.

Fenris continued, ignoring him completely, “I cannot be so selfish. Surrendering myself is the correct decision, and it is _my_ decision to make.  We are not comrades, just because we are both-” Fenris seemed to choke on the word, his breath caught around it as he stumbled to finish his thought.

“Mages?” Anders supplied snidely. “You don't think that I know a bit about what you're feeling right now? I burned down my family's barn, you know, when I discovered my gift. You don't think I was as afraid as you are now?”

“No,” Fenris snarled, “I don't think you were. You call magic a gift even now, with a demon living inside you. I think you are reckless and headstrong. I think that you care little of the people around you and I think that you have always been a selfish brat!” Anders thought about punching him. He would deserve it, even if that was probably the reaction Fenris was fishing for. 

The elf may have been right, once. In ways, he still was; but Anders was no longer the same person he used to be. Justice, if nothing else, had changed him. If only he could make Fenris understand that magic was more than a weapon. The elf had seen him heal their friends in battle. He had watched him flush disease from children's lungs, mend broken bones, deliver children, and still he wanted to call the man selfish? Anders barely had anything left for himself at this point but a place to lay his head, a  howling,  restless spirit and a heart broken too many times to count, but he would not give up on Fenris.

“Did you think that I would wake up and suddenly have a change of heart,” Fenris asked, “that I would run to your side and become a champion for mages' rights? How could I know this kind of power and think of myself- of any of you- as anything other than a dangerous explosive, just waiting for the right demon to destroy me? I'm not that strong Anders,” his voice broke, and Anders barely even noticed the rare use of his name. Justice was still unsettled, pacing his mind like a lion, agitated and impatient. “No one is that strong.”

“That's bullshit! ” He raised his voice and threw his hand out, slapping his palm on the mantle to punctuate his words before he thought better of it, and instantly regret ted it when he felt a sharp pain that took his breath away, like his fingers had broken all over again.  He hissed , nursing his throbbing fist against his chest, “terrible idea, why did I do that,” he hopped in place, wincing as he finished his initial thought. “Fenris, you're the strongest person I know and if it keeps you from throwing your life away, then forget what I said before. I'll teach you everything I know, and that's kind of a lot, if it's not bragging to say so.”

“It is, and _no thank you._ I've already made my decision.” He gave Anders an incredulous look and scoffed. “Heal yourself mage, you look like a buffoon.”

Anders glared at him. “Not until you agree that you're making a terrible decision and you  _won't do it.”_

“Fine,” he said, turning back to Marian and ignoring Anders entirely, “live with a broken hand for the rest of your life. I won't care soon enough.”

It struck Anders that his words could only mean that he cared  _now,_ but the thought was eclipsed by  the persisting image of Fenris with cold, dead eyes, serving Templars like the slave he no longer wished to be, skin raised on his forehead in a brand far worse than any collar or chain . Marian was speaking again, and Fenris' attention was on her. Perhaps she could talk some sense into the crazed elf.

“Fenris, Anders is right,” she explained, trying to keep her voice even. “You're not thinking clearly. This is the worst decision you could make right now. I know you're dealing with a lot of different emotions, and I know that this is hard for you-”

“That's putting it lightly,” Fenris snapped.

Anders made a frustrated noise and stepped away from the fireplace, closer to the elf and lowered his voice. He tried to keep the argumentative tone he usually took with Fenris out of his words. “Look, you don't understand what they'll do to you in there.” Fenris' jaw tightened as his eyes flitted back to Anders. He glared daggers but didn't say anything so Anders continued. “Even if you didn't ask them to make you Tranquil, a pretty elf like you, in the Gallows, surrounded by Templars with no one to tell them no? Fuck, Fenris, how could you want that for yourself? After all your time as someone else's slave, at least you could dream about leaving! At least you had your mind! Even after that bastard took your memories, took everything you were, you could still build yourself back up.” Fenris was still staring at him, eyes icy and jaw clenched tight. “You do this, and you won't even have that. You'll be their property like you've never been anyone else's, not even Danarius. There's no coming back from this, Fenris.”

“I don't want to come back from this,” he said softly.

Anders snarled. “You want to be a Templar's personal cock warmer?!” He shouldn't have said it; he knew he shouldn't have, but his mind kept coming back to it. He had lived in the Circle. He had seen first-hand the liberties Templars took with the Tranquil. Almost without fail, the bastards couldn't seem to resist taking advantage of such helpless, obedient victims. And here? In Kirkwall, in the infamous Gallows, where the Templars were notorious for their cruelty and disregard for personal liberty? An elf like Fenris, with his striking white hair, his lithe muscles and slender frame, and the coils and veins of lyrium humming under his skin like a siren song that would drive those addicts wild- he wouldn't stand a chance. Anders saw that sunburst every time he closed his eyes. He saw Karl's blank stare and wondered what he had let them do to him.

He heard a sob from his side and both his and Fenris' eyes turned to see tears streaming freely down Marian Hawke's face. He felt his blood freeze in his veins as he realised, before she even spoke, what she was thinking. “Marian, I'm so sorry.”

Fenris' eyes widened.

“Please,” she said, voice shaking, “don't make me watch someone else I love disappear into that place.”

Fenris opened his mouth but couldn't seem to think of anything to say.

Marian was crying openly now, and Anders felt tears well in his own eyes as panic swelled and crested within him. There was something distinctly wrong with seeing the Champion of Kirkwall break down. He wanted to take her into his arms but wasn't sure if he should. “I've lost so many people,” she managed between sobs. “You're all I have left. All of you. I can't lose you too, Fenris. I won't.”

Fenris swallowed. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, then cleared his throat, “about Bethany. I really am, Hawke.” Marian looked at him pleadingly. “But I'm not as strong as her.” His voice broke and Marian failed to stifle a sob as she shook her head disbelievingly.

“You are,” she was saying. “Please.”

“I'm going through with it, Marian. I'm sorry, but I have to.”

Hawke balled her hands into fists at her sides. She was still wearing her armour, and her gauntleted fingers made a shrill noise as they ground together, like nails on a chalkboard.  She was still shaking her head, like she couldn't quite believe this was happening.

“I won't let you,” she said softly, voice trembling.

Fenris sighed, weariness evident in the way he held his arms close to his body and in the way his shoulders drooped and his posture slumped. “And how do you propose to stop me, Marian?”

Marian took a deep breath, and it seemed as though, in that time, she made a terrible decision. Anders could see the tell-tale burden of her resolve in the familiar way she steeled herself. She could have been telling the Arishok to go fuck himself, or lying to an armed Templar force about the whereabouts of their missing charges, but it was obvious that she knew trouble was coming.

“You owe me,” she said simply, voice carefully neutral and controlled even as tears stained her cheeks.

Fenris scoffed. “Half of Kirkwall owes you, Hawke. What could you possibly think would keep me-”

“Danarius.”

Anders turned to stare at her incredulously, just as a fire lit in Fenris' hard green eyes.

“I KILLED DANARIUS,” he roared, and suddenly he was in her face, towering over her even though there was only inches between them in height. She seemed so small, and Fenris was a mountain, shaking under the onslaught of a thundering foundation. “I did it! Not you, _the Champion of Kirkwall,_ ME. I held his heart in my hands and I crushed it! I owe you nothing!”

Marian closed her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed softly, “you did. But before-”

“Before?” Fenris glanced at Anders, as if he could help him understand what she was talking about. Anders shook his head, helpless and clueless. He had a growing sense of dread. “What before?” He turned back to the rogue. “There was no before. There was going to meet Varania, and then there was him. None of us knew...”

“I did,” she confessed. Her voice was quiet as she pressed on, ignoring the look of mounting horror on both of their faces. “He sent me a letter, before you ever heard about your sister.”

“What... Marian...?” Anders throat was dry. Hawke held up a hand for him to stop and she continued, never looking away from Fenris.

“He offered me a lot, for you. To give you back. But I refused.”

Fenris was shaking. “But you could have said yes.” His voice was too small. Between the two of them, the fire crackled louder than their words.

“I refused!” Hawke's voice broke. “I thought my reputation was enough to keep him away. I was trying to protect you...”

“If you were truly trying to protect me, you would have told me.” His shoulders shook. He licked his lips and Anders noticed how dry they were. His eyes were unfocused and far away. “Tell me,” he said, “did you consider it...?”

“I...”

Fenris turned away from her, shoulders bowed. He stepped back and rested his fingers on the mantle, watching the fire, his thumb tracing the edges of a bloodstain Anders had left behind. “You had the opportunity to sell me back to my former master. You dealt with him, secretly, behind my back, and decided you wanted me more than you wanted him to have me.”

Hawke winced.

“And you would hold this over me,” he said flatly, his voice muffled by the fire.

Anders turned wide, pleading eyes on Hawke, but she  still  refused to look at him. She swallowed and her whole body seemed to tremble with the movement. “I will.”

“So be it.” Fenris' fingers tightened on the wood for a moment before he released it entirely, his shoulders further slumping until he looked positively meek. “It would appear he was right. I was never meant to be free.”

“Fenris that's not-”

“If you would use this to blackmail me into staying, then I am truly no more than a slave once again. It is good for me to know my place, I suppose.”

Marian looked horrified. “Fenris that's not what I meant!”

He turned steely eyes on her. “Are you or are you not telling me that I am not free to leave here and do as I wish?”

She gaped at him, opening her mouth several times, obviously u ncertain of what to say. 

Anders couldn't be  sure whether or not he felt sorry for her. He didn't want Fenris to go either, but this couldn't be the only way to keep him from it. This felt... wrong.  He felt unclean watching the exchange, even if he couldn't think of another way to help either of them. He felt rooted to the spot, lost, dazed and not just a little sick.

“I... I am,” Hawke finally responded shakily.

Fenris smiled ruefully and lowered his eyes, fixing them firmly at her feet, the fight gone from his eyes. “Very well then,” he murmured. “Is there anything else, Master, or may I go?”

Her features twisted in pain and anger and her gauntlets screeched again as she tightened her fist. Fenris didn't so much as blink at the sound where he remained standing, hunched in on himself and averting his eyes, but it made Anders flinch. Hawke gritted her teeth and snatched up her daggers where they lay on the low table. “You're a real bastard, Fenris,” she whispered  shakily and turned to march out of the room, sliding her blades back into their sheaths at her back and slamming the door to the Amell Estate behind her as she left.

When she was gone, Anders opened his mouth to speak. He wasn't sure what he had planned on saying, but he never got the chance. Fenris shouldered past him, not meeting his eyes and slammed the door to Hawke's office, echoing Hawke's departure like a petulant child banished to his room.

Anders rubbed his eyes with  uninjured hand, groaning in frustration and exhaustion. With Marian gone who knew where, and Fenris barricaded in the office, Anders was alone in the vastness of the parlour with only the sound of crackling flames  and his own racing thoughts . Even Justice was quiet.


	4. Me, Liquor and God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! Life happens fast.
> 
> Enjoy the first hints of Fenders!

The first hour passed in silence.

Hawke's library was warm, the crackling of the fire in the hearth and in the sconces the only sound to break up the quiet; but Fenris felt chilled. He sat on the floor for a while, by the fire, and when that grew too monotonous, he began to wander. He picked a book off the shelf by Hawke's desk but only recognised every third word or so, the rest a jumbled mess of characters and letters that were beyond his comprehension. He dropped the book on the floor carelessly. On the other side of the room, there was a low table with a mess of papers- invitations, if he recognised the delicate calligraphy and official stamps of noble families. More highbrow pomps trying to get in with the Champion of Kirkwall. Fenris scoffed.

A small collection of books sat beside the papers, held straight by a pair of heavy stone bookweights, and next to those, a stout glass bottle wrapped tight with decorative rope. He uncorked it and sniffed- definitely brandy, and expensive brandy at that. Likely Antivan. He studied the bottle for a moment before a spark of recognition lit in his mind. This was from Danarius' cellar. He had gifted it to Hawke when he had taken his initial inventory of his new collection. Fenris wasn't much for brandy, typically. It didn't have the sophistication he had come to associate with wine. Wine was a Magister's drink. It shifted beautifully in shiny, delicate glasses on a hot Minrathous day, framed by manicured hands used to wielding magic and unused to work. It also looked good painting his walls, glinting on shards of broken glass that cut his feet and made him feel a twisted sort of satisfaction.

Fenris tossed back the brandy and took a long pull from the bottle.

He wandered away from the table. Up the marble stairs, the second floor of the library was even quieter, the crackling of the fire farther away and the rest of the house deathly silent. His feet took him to the bannister overlooking the entrance hall to the Amell Estate and he leaned against it, staring down at the cold grey stone and the empty hall. He could still hear Marian's heavy footsteps moving through that hall so quickly, the heavy door slamming behind her.

_'You're a real bastard, Fenris.'_

He took another pull from the brandy, wincing at the heat it dragged down his throat. Against all his better senses, he felt remorse for how he had spoken to Hawke. His heart told him he had made a mistake in treating her like a Tevinter Magister; his mind told him she deserved it. If she was going to act like one, then he would treat her as one. Even with tears on her face, with pain in her voice, she had spoken to him like he was property.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. If he couldn't trust Hawke, who was left for him to trust? He was alone, more now than ever.

He caught the sound of shuffling from the other side of the hall. His eyes darted to the open doorway where the orange and red of the fire from the other hearth danced in shadows that crept around the frame of the door. Another shadow moved separate from them, a human shape in a long coat moving in the room beyond.

Anders.

He had almost forgotten about the mage. He had assumed the man would have left by now, but there was no one else that shadow could belong to.

Fenris frowned. What was he still doing here? Waiting for Hawke to come back? Waiting for Fenris to come out? He doubted either would be happening any time soon.

And what would he do when she did come back? He was in her service now, after all. He was effectively a slave again, held under her boot with blackmail and debt, like Danarius had kept him under his with magic and power. He snarled under his breath and squeezed the bottle of brandy until his knuckles turned white. He considered throwing it across the hall. From up here, it would smash perfectly on the other side, high up by the ceiling and thunder down to the floor, brandy staining the entire wall a fragrant amber brown.

But in the end, he wanted to drink this bottle. He wanted to keep going until it no longer felt like fire in his throat and the world spun away from him in topsy turvy swirls; he wanted to drink until he didn't hurt quite so much.

He took another swig and turned away from the railing.

 

The second hour passed very much like the first and Fenris sat, on the floor in front of the fireplace, quiet, alone, with a bottle in his hand, trying and failing to pick out the sound of Anders moving around outside the door.

 

He finally heard something sometime during the third hour. The creaking of a floorboard outside, the soft shuffle of footsteps moving about. His ears perked up but the sound fell away and he was left again with nothing but the crackle of the fire. He wondered if Anders had finally left.

 

There was a knock on the door four hours after Fenris had shut himself in the library. It was gentle but firm, and Fenris startled to hear it. He had wrapped the blanket he slept under the night before around his shoulders, and the bottle of brandy was empty beside him. He jolted at the sudden sound, and it tipped, spilling little amber droplets onto the rug. He stared at them in shock, focusing on the way they pooled and rocked, like a gentle tide, the firelight glinting off of them like the sun. He blinked heavily and the rocking didn't stop.

The knock came again, more insistent, and a voice carried over it.

“Fenris?” Of course it was Anders. The busybody mage probably thought he was babysitting, the fool.

'Go away,' he tried to say, but all that came out was a disgruntled, “Hrrnghh.”

Muffled cursing from the other side of the door, and then it was swinging open, creaking on its hinges, and Anders was righting his grip on a metal tray he had balanced on his hip to open the door. A warm, meaty aroma floated in with him, and Fenris' mouth watered despite the sour look on his face.

“Brought you dinner,” Anders said warmly. “Figured it was probably about time you eat something. You've been brooding in here for hours.”

Fenris turned his nose up at the food and muttered broodily, “'m not hungry.” He was sure he was slurring his words but couldn't bring himself to care.

Anders scoffed and set the tray down, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside him. Fenris couldn't help but glance at the tray. There were two bowls of hearty looking stew, a fresh baked loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and a single golden apple, glinting in the light of the fire. His stomach growled, betraying him just like everyone else in his life.

“I'm calling bullshit on that one,” Anders replied calmly. He glanced down at the empty bottle and then back up at Fenris, squinting his eyes. “Did you drink that whole bottle? Maker's balls, Fenris.”

“You're not my keeper.”

“No?” Anders asked, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. “And that's Hawke now, is it?” Fenris stared at him. There were at least fifty things he wanted to say, to snap back at the mage, but none of them came out. Instead he just stared. Anders swayed dangerously, or perhaps the room did. He couldn't be sure. Anders muttered something unintelligible and then he was handing Fenris a spoon, sliding the tray over to him. “Just eat your food,” he said.

Fenris didn't need to be told twice. “I hate you,” he said, without venom but for good measure, and then shovelled a spoonful of steaming stew into his mouth.

“No you don't,” Anders said lightly.

They ate in silence for a while, Fenris inhaling the stew like he had never tasted anything better. It was warm and dark, all thick broth and chunks of some mystery meat, with carrots and potatoes and slices of leek, and it made him feel comfortable for the first time since slinging a magic fist at Tevinter mages the day before. Anders ate much more politely at his side, staring off at the fire as he blew gently on his food. When Fenris' stomach felt adequately heavy and there was no more stew in his bowl, he set it down on the tray and picked up the apple, studying it closely. He wasn't sure if he wanted it right now, but he was still very drunk, and he liked the way the light made it seem to glow gold. He wondered if Anders knew how much he liked apples, or if it was a coincidence. The mage was being suspiciously nice to him.

“It isn't poisoned, you know.”

Fenris looked up. Anders wasn't swaying anymore, but his lips were quirked up in the hint of a smile, and he had one eyebrow raised in amusement. Fenris put the apple down. “I know that mage.”

For a long moment, Anders looked as though he wanted to say something, but as the seconds ticked by, he seemed to change his mind. He reached for the wine and plucked a knife from the tray, starting to work on getting it open. “I brought this for you,” he said, wiggling the cork out of the bottle with a little bit of difficulty, “but I'm not so sure that's a good idea now, after seeing what you've already demolished single-handedly. Honestly, I'm surprised you're not dead yet.”

“It takes more than a bottle of brandy,” Fenris said dismissively. “And I'll be very upset if you open that in front of me and refrain from sharing it.” The cork came out with a _pop! a_ nd Anders gave him an unreadable look. “I'll be fine.”

The mage shrugged. “If you say so. Just remember, if you throw up on Hawke's rug, you're cleaning it up.”

Fenris rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle, downing several mouthfuls before he handed it back. Anders took a quiet drink, and they went back to watching the fire.

“You know,” Anders said after several silent minutes, “It's going to be okay- all of this.” He gestured vaguely. “I know it doesn't seem like it, but you're going to get through it. We're here for you. _I'm_ here for you.”

Fenris turned to watch him with squinted, suspicious eyes. Anders was pointedly not looking at him. He snatched the wine back and took a drink. “You hate me,” he stated simply.

Anders rolled his eyes. “No I don't. I didn't hate you before you were a mage, and I certainly don't hate you now.”

It was a testament to how drunk he was and how warm the fire and the other man's proximity were that the word ' _mage_ ' didn't make his blood run cold.

“Well then you're a fool.” Anders finally met his eye, and he took the bottle back from Fenris, their bare fingers brushing as Anders' curled around the neck of the bottle. “A fool who's agreed to help me out of some twisted obligation-”

“It's _not_ obligation!” The rise in the man's voice startled Fenris, and he stared at him in surprise as Anders lowered his voice and continued. After the long silence, and the quiet of their conversation so far, it seemed his volume had startled Anders as well. “Look,” he started, running a hand through the loose hair at his neck. Fenris was surprised to see deep purple bruises still mottling the swollen joints of Anders' fingers. “As much as we bicker, and have vastly different views on certain subjects, I do consider us friends, Fenris. You can't traipse around a city like Kirkwall for years with somebody and not consider them a friend. I've had my hands in your guts, elf, and you've held my hair on the rare occasion Justice actually lets me get drunk, and I overestimate my own tolerance. I think we could be called friends, all else be damned- or do you not agree?”

“Hmph,” Fenris said smartly. He swallowed around a lump in his throat and made grabby hands for the wine. Anders wasn't even drinking it. He wondered at the fact that his spirit was letting him drink at all.

Anders passed it over with a huff and Fenris lifted the warm glass to his mouth, holding it there perhaps longer than necessary.

“My point is,” Anders continued, “that I've never hated you, and that I'm helping you because I _want to,_ not because I feel like I should.”

Fenris set the wine down heavily. The world felt like it was spinning madly again and he listed to his right, leaning on Anders' shoulder and not caring much to move, even as he felt the mage tense against him. He let his head drop and closed his eyes tight, but the world was still spinning and it was making him sick.

They were quiet for more long moments and Fenris began to feel comfortable leaning against another warm body like this. He couldn't remember the last time he shared this kind of contact with someone.

“I said cruel things to you earlier,” he finally said softly.

Anders laughed nervously. “Yeah, well, such is life.”

Fenris squeezed his eyes tighter and shook his head, even though the motion set the world back to spinning. “I was wrong. Just this once,” he added hurriedly. Anders breathed out a laugh. “I'm sorry if I hurt you.”

Anders wound an arm around his back and supported him where he lay with his head on his shoulder. He smelled like herbs and parchment, and woodsmoke, and beneath that, the lightest hint of clean sweat and musk. His breath was warm against Fenris' hair when he spoke. “I'm a big boy, I can handle it.”

Fenris hummed, exhausted and not entirely pleased with that answer, though admittedly unsure why.

But he was warm and full, and very drunk, and leaning against Anders was... nice. Against his better judgement, he could feel himself drifting off.

“Anders...?” he murmured sleepily.

“Mm?”

“Please heal your hand.”

And then he was dead to the world, wrapped in a blanket and tucked into his (friend?)'s side, his strong arm holding him tight and making him feel safer than he could ever remember feeling.


End file.
